Hunger
by Strigi
Summary: Nora knew hunger from her prewar college days. But she didn't understand the complexity of it until she was scavenging back and forth between hard, self-made settlements centuries later. One-shot. Rated for mild language.
A/N: Just a one-shot drabbling. Inspired when I went—get this—a whole day without eating and I tore into a can of ravioli. Mild language.

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 **Hunger  
** _by Strigi_

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Nora knew hunger from her prewar college days, struggling to scrape day by day between exams and papers, gleaning sustenance from instant noodles and cans of beans if she was lucky enough to acquire protein. But she didn't understand the complexity of hunger until she was scavenging back and forth between hard, self-made settlements centuries later.

From the ruins of her own home to the decimated fortress rebuilt, remade as the Castle, a palisade of Minutemen, and other detours along the way that claimed her attention, farmhouses, and other settlements alike. Her own perseverance that saw her through law school similarly saw her through the dangerous terrain that was the Commonwealth Wasteland. Sometimes she took a companion with her, but more often than not, she went alone. It was easier, more efficient to ignore her own needs, but it complicated her streamlined nature and carefully planned routes if she had to account for the needs of another. Even if a companion could ignore their own needs as well she could; Nora was still responsible for them.

So it was easiest to be alone. Her own sense of self-loathing denied her the luxuries of lingering in the prospering settlements for basic necessities until her missions were completed. She could go days without eating. She was becoming expert at ignoring the persistent pain in her belly. It wasn't that the settlements were struggling to produce crops or food. They were flourishing, producing plenty for the provisioners to bring to the less fortunate settlements. No one suffered or went hungry on her watch. She was too busy to worry about her own hunger.

Until she woke up on the days with a splitting headache, and everything in her field of perception started wavering in and out of focus. She was human, after all. Her own decaying body required sustenance at some point. And so she was forced to delay her journeys to forage for her own food.

Preston scolded her for not carrying food with her, and she reasoned that it would weigh her down too much. But in the long hours of solitude as she reflected upon her own failures of a mother, she justified that she wasn't deserving of the plentiness of food in the settlement. The only reason she acceded to eating at all was to continue her work. Others depended on her, and she couldn't fail them like she had failed Shawn. Like she had failed Nate.

She pushed herself off the threadbare sleeping bag, blinking in the brightness of the morning sun. She had slept in longer than she intended, and her head felt too heavy to support. She pushed through the pain, reaching for her .50 caliber sniper rifle as she decided on hunting.

Herds of radstags always roamed through the once-urban intersections outside Lexington and Concord. Nora always found some humor in the sight of post-apocalyptic deer ambling through the broken pavement of once-been city streets.

She chose an ample sniper's spot and hoisted her heavy rifle. She focused an eye down the sight, waiting for the opportunity.

She held very still for several minutes, but to no avail. Too weak, too long without food. Her vision refused to cooperate, her hands shook horribly, and the weapon was too much for her to hold. Frustrated, she threw a magazine to the ground and ended up leaning against Sanctuary, her rifle, for support.

She took some even breaths to steady herself, her head buzzing and swaying. A persistent migraine pulsed behind her right eye. She shouldered Sanctuary and grimly decided on scavenging through the Super Duper in Lexington. It wasn't far, but to her nuisance, it was infested with ferals.

Thirty minutes later found her fleeing the market, out of breath, sporting a sore ankle, a nasty cut on her hand, some goop—probably congealed feral blood—on her duster. But she had some cans in her pack. She didn't get to see what sort of cans they were until she took cover in Lexington's Red Rocket truck stop.

Pork 'N Beans. It could have been worse. Much worse. Still, she hated scavenging for food. There was something about the idea of eating food two centuries past the expiration date that didn't seem like a good idea. Food as old as her. Wastelanders thought nothing of the oddity, it was so damn commonplace, but there was a squeamish element that made her adverse to it.

But, here she was. And here were the beans. She made it this long; she supposed with some wry sense of chagrin, they could too. Albeit, everything ingrained in her structure of understanding wanted to yield against it. She pulled out her combat knife, shoving the blade through the metal lid. There was a small _hiss_ of the release of pressurized air.

People of the Commonwealth would _never_ understand the luxury of a goddamn can opener.

Her ravenous stomach churned at the smell—she couldn't even identify it as the beans she remembered from college. Just a wet mess of protein was the only way she could describe it. But her stomach became impatient, started committing mutiny by making her feel nauseous. She had started a fire to heat it up—no one likes cold beans—but then she couldn't handle the wait.

She ungracefully scarfed the beans down, using her fingers and glad no one was around to witness her in such a state. Something about being the General of the Minutemen and the prominent figure of the Commonwealth expected her to be held to some higher standard, not the uncivilized grunt smearing beans all over her face.

They were good and bad at the same time. Good, satisfying to fill her stomach. A bad, terrible taste. The contents were in that awkward stage. Half-heated and half-cold. She burned her tongue and throat while gulping down what felt like chunks of ice at the same time. What a fucking paradox.

With the first can devoured, she had the capability of controlling herself more. The other two were properly heated and consumed. She went to motherfucking law school. She wasn't an animal.

Her mood improved once she had her fill. Her good sense returned too. She would bring food with her next time. She wouldn't wait this long to sate her hunger.

The radio on her Pipboy flickered to life with a message from Radio Freedom. "General. A settlement needs your help."

She sighed, reaching for Sanctuary. "Here we go again."

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-Strigi


End file.
